The Moonshine Shack Murder Read online

  Though my sister and brother had wished me luck, they’d both moved out of the area years ago and wouldn’t be able to attend the event. My parents arrived a half hour early, bringing Granddaddy with them. He took up residence on a rocker out front, a chunk of wood and a small, sharp carving tool in hand, whittling away.

  Mom put a hand on my shoulder. “I hope this works out for you, Hattie.”

  I’d have felt more encouraged if she hadn’t been shaking her head skeptically as she spoke. Ugh! I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. My mother hadn’t taken a single risk in all her life, and she couldn’t understand why I’d leave a good job to venture out on my own, especially when there was, in her words, “plenty of professionally produced moonshine already on the market.” She seemed to think moonshining was merely a hobby for me. She was wrong. Bootleg booze was both my business and my birthright. Of course, I encouraged my customers to drink with discretion. My logo included the phrase “Shine Smart.”

  My father, on the other hand, was far more supportive than my mom. He raised his hand for a high five. “I knew you could do it, Hattie. Your moonshine will make a killing!”

  “I sure hope so.”

  Over the next couple of hours, dozens of the business owners I’d invited to the party circled by to get a gander at the Moonshine Shack, sample the flavors, and collect their free jar or jug of moonshine. Every time the bells on the door jingled, my heart skipped a beat and I looked over to see if it might be Officer Landers arriving. But every time it was someone else. Has he forgotten about my invitation?

  I tapped jar after jar, filling shot glasses so everyone could try as many types as they cared to. The apple pie flavor seemed to garner the most interest, while Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor came in a close second. The younger women liked the blackberry flavor, while the older ladies seemed to have a taste for the cherry variety.

  I tucked a jar of the Georgia peach moonshine into a gift bag, along with a copy of drink recipes I’d concocted. “This peach shine tastes great in iced tea,” I told the woman who’d selected it. “You can add it to cobbler or preserves, too.”

  “What a fun idea!” She thanked me and headed on her way.

  Mack Clayton stepped up to the table, smelling faintly of barbecue. No doubt he’d come directly from the Smoky Mountains Smokehouse. After we’d exchanged friendly greetings, he said, “I’ll take a jug of your grandfather’s corn liquor. I’m going to make some shine sauce, see how people like it.”

  Maybe Mack would become a customer of the Shack after all. I pulled a jug from the supply behind me and handed it over the table to him. “Would you like to try any of the Firefly flavors? Be a shame to miss out.”

  “Can’t have that, can we?” He ran his gaze over the choices. “Let me try the blueberry.”

  I poured a sample into a shot glass and handed it to him. “Cheers.”

  He tossed the shot back and raised his glass in tribute. “Hoo-ee! That’s some good stuff.”

  I beamed with pride.

  The crowd grew, jars and jugs of moonshine flying off the shelves. I hadn’t expected such a turnout. By my best estimate, I’d given away more than a thousand dollars’ worth of moonshine and we were only halfway through the party. I hoped I hadn’t been foolish to invite such a large crowd, to offer a full jar for free. But as they say, you’ve got to spend money to make money.

  Although I’d invited the local media, both television stations and newspapers, all of the news outlets had declined. I’d tried to spin the opening of the Moonshine Shack as a human-interest story, as well as one involving the region’s moonshining history, but they seemed to know what I was really after—free publicity. Only my university’s alumni magazine had taken up the story. They’d sent over a journalism major in her junior year who wrote for the mag. She asked me some quick questions, snapped several photos, and sampled some shine, leaving with details to distill into an article as well as an already distilled jar of peach shine.

  Jingle-jingle. The door opened again, and again it wasn’t Officer Landers. Instead, in walked a thirtyish guy with short, sandy hair and stylish eyeglasses. He wore a slate-blue dress shirt that perfectly matched the color of his frames, but the fact that he wore the shirt with jeans and loafers kept him from looking too fussy. A white, wireless Bluetooth headset curled over his left ear. He glanced around, assessing the people and place, before his gaze circled around to me. His brows rose slightly in question. I gave him a nod of acknowledgment, and he headed my way.

  He stepped up to my table. “You’re the proprietor?”

  “Yep. That’s me. Hattie Hayes, moonshine mogul.”

  “We didn’t get a chance to meet when you delivered the invitation to my office. I’m Heath Delaney.”

  “From Delaney and Sullivan? The law firm on Fifth Street?”

  He dipped his chin in confirmation. “Welcome to the neighborhood. It’s a great place to run a business. Lots of tourist traffic.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  “Do you have legal representation?”

  “No.” My lease for the Moonshine Shack and my contract with the bottling company had been standard boilerplate, and I’d done my due diligence to make sure my landlord and the bottler had good reputations among their tenants and clients. With my budget stretched tight, I’d taken a chance and signed the agreements without having them reviewed by an attorney.

  “My firm represents many of the small-business owners in the area,” Heath said. “If you need a contract reviewed or somebody sued, I’m your guy.” He whipped a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I tucked the card into my back pocket. Turning to the matter at hand, I swept my arm to indicate the selections of moonshine in front of me. “Anything in particular you’d like to sample? Or should I set you up with a shot of each flavor?”

  “What the heck. I’ll try them all.”

  “You got it.” As I set about filling shot glasses for Heath, the ginger-haired owner of Limericks sauntered through the front door, the honey-haired cocktail waitress on his arm. He looked around at the crowded place and frowned. It wasn’t like I’d stolen any of his customers. These folks were all fellow businesspeople here to get a jar of moonshine and take a look at my place, that’s all.

  Mack Clayton was chatting with a woman from the toy train store when he spotted the barkeep over her shoulder. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. If I hadn’t been looking right at him at the time, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I wonder what that’s about.

  The owner of Limericks made his way over, stepping up next to Heath. He slid the attorney a steely look and a grunt before ignoring the man as if he weren’t there.

  “Welcome!” I repeated my earlier gesture, sweeping my arm to indicate the options. “What’s your pleasure?”

  He noted the seven shot glasses in front of Heath and angled his head to indicate the attorney. “Give me what you gave him.”

  The honey-haired girl stepped up on the other side of her boss. She curled her French-tipped fingers over his shoulder in a familiar, affectionate gesture that said the relationship between the two of them went beyond business. “Me too, please.”

  “All righty.” I set up two lines of shot glasses on the table and eyed the man. “I didn’t catch your name when I was in Limericks yesterday.”

  “I’m Cormac O’Keefe.”

  An Irish name if ever there was one. “Glad you could swing by, Cormac.”

  He offered another grunt in reply. Apparently, he spoke fluid caveman. What the blonde saw in him was anyone’s guess.

  She gave me a smile and stuck out her hand. “I’m Miranda.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miranda.”

  As I poured shots for Cormac and Miranda, Heath sipped at his samples. He nodded when he found them enjoyable but grimaced
as the cinnamon sample went down. He banged a fist on his chest to fight the burn. “That’ll put hair on your chest.”

  Cormac snorted. “You could use some.”

  Heath stood stock-still, staring at the side of Cormac’s face. While Cormac had been brave enough to mock the attorney, he didn’t seem quite brave enough to look directly his way. I deduced from the exchange that the two had a history. But what, exactly, did that history entail?

  When I finished pouring the samples for Cormac, he tossed each of them back in quick succession, not bothering to stop and savor each flavor. Miranda, on the other hand, hadn’t forgotten her manners. “Thanks!” she said before daintily sipping from her first sample cup.

  A sixtyish woman with light gray hair tapped Heath on the shoulder, and he turned to address her. While Heath was conversing with the woman, I asked Cormac what he thought of the moonshine.

  “It’ll get the job done,” he said.

  Not exactly a rousing endorsement. I turned to Miranda. “What do you think?”

  “Sooooo good!” she cooed. “I like them all, but the wild blackberry is my favorite.”

  I pulled a jar of the fruity shine from the shelf behind me and handed it to her. “On the house. Enjoy.”

  “Yum! Thank you so much! I can’t wait to share this with my friends. They’ll love it, too.” She nudged Cormac gently in the ribs with her elbow. “You should buy some for the bar.”

  Miranda’s enthusiastic affirmation seemed to convince Cormac he should offer my moonshine in Limericks. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Bring an assorted case over tomorrow. Two jugs of your grandpa’s stuff, too.”

  My first sale! And fourteen jars, no less. Woo-hoo!

  Before I could respond, Heath turned back around, cutting a scathing glance at Cormac before addressing me with a pointed look. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Here’s some free advice for you. Get that order in writing. Make sure the terms are clearly defined and the order is signed and dated.”

  Cormac scoffed but still didn’t quite look Heath in the eye. “Quit mansplaining. She can run her own business.” Cormac returned his attention to me. He lifted his chin and raised his brows, silently communicating See you tomorrow with that moonshine? I gave him a small nod.

  As Cormac and Miranda walked off, Heath frowned at their backs. “Keep my card close at hand. If you’re going to deal with Cormac O’Keefe, you’re going to need me. That man is as cutthroat as they come.”

  Chapter Three

  I watched Heath’s back as he, too, headed out the door. My thoughts were all over the place. Had the lawyer been toying with me in the hopes of landing a new client? Or did he know something I didn’t? Cormac wasn’t exactly a nice guy, but he’d been straightforward in our limited interactions. Maybe he was the one I should listen to. Maybe Heath had overstepped by insinuating himself in our transaction, implying I couldn’t handle my business on my own.

  I was on the fence, unsure whom to trust, until Mack Clayton walked back over. He seemed as steamed as the green beans he served at his barbecue joint. “If you sell any moonshine to Cormac O’Keefe,” the restaurateur snapped, “get the cash up front.”

  “You speaking from experience, Mack?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Thanks to Mack, I was no longer on the fence about O’Keefe. “I appreciate the heads-up.”

  As Mack and I broke our little huddle, the bells jingle-jangled once more. I looked up to see Officer Landers coming through the door. I felt myself heat up, like a boiler full of corn mash. He wore cowboy boots and jeans, along with a blue western shirt embroidered with silver horseshoes on the yoke. He stopped to give Smoky a scratch behind the ears.

  Kiki and Kate sidled up to me. Apparently, the officer’s entrance hadn’t gone unnoticed by the two of them, either. The three of us stared at him across the room.

  “Giddy-up,” Kiki purred. “Who’s the hot cowboy?”

  “He’s a cop,” I whispered. “He came by late Friday and helped me unload my van.”

  Kate asked, “What’s his name?”

  “His last name is Landers,” I said. “I got that from his badge. The only thing I know about his first name is that it starts with the letter M.”

  “Maybe the M is for manly,” Kate said.

  “Or magnificent,” Kiki said.

  “Or maybe it’s just a bunch of Ms in a row,” I murmured. “Mmmmm.”

  When the three of us broke into giggles, Officer Landers looked our way. Instantly, my friends turned their attention to the table in front of us, rounding up used shot glasses and wiping away drips. I wanted to do the same but found myself unable to look away. The cop and I locked eyes and a warm sensation spread through me, as if I’d taken a generous sip of shine.

  He stepped over to the table and stopped in front of me, somehow both too close and not close enough at the same time. “Good evening, Miss Hayes,” he drawled with a charming formality.

  “Hello, Officer Landers.”

  “Call me Marlon,” he said, solving the mystery of the M.

  “And you can call me Hattie.”

  His focus shifted from me, to Kiki, to Kate. He took in Kate’s big belly and the glass of water in her hand. “I suppose every party needs a pooper.” His friendly grin let her know he was only teasing.

  I introduced Marlon to my girls. “These are my friends, Kiki and Kate.”

  He dipped his head. “Nice to meet you, ladies.”

  Kiki lifted her tray of shot glasses. “I’m going to run these back to the sink and wash them. It was nice to meet you, Marlon.”

  Kate, too, begged off, giving the officer and me a chance to speak privately. “I’ll check on your grandfather. See if he needs anything.”

  As Kate headed toward the front door, Marlon gestured to the window. “That’s your grandfather out front? He’s a hoot.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “What did he do?” There was no telling. Granddaddy wasn’t exactly what you’d call conventional.

  “Challenged me to a game of chess,” Marlon said. “Every time he got himself in a bad spot, he’d trick me into looking away and move the pieces around while my head was turned.”

  “Sounds about right. He can be a handful. When my granny was alive, she had to take her wooden spoon to him regularly.”

  Marlon looked around. “You’ve got a nice establishment here.” He wandered over to the photo gallery and stopped in front of the photo of me chasing fireflies. “Is that you?”

  “Sure is.”

  “You were a cute kid.”

  “Were?” I puffed out my lower lip in a mock pout. “You don’t think I’m cute anymore?”

  “You’re still cute,” he said. “But you’re certainly not a kid anymore.” He slid me a look that caused my toes to curl inside my tennis shoes. Turning his attention to the newspaper clipping, he pointed at the grainy picture. “What a coincidence. That’s my great-grandfather.”

  Before I could stop it, a horrified “Ew!” burst from my lips. “We’re related?”

  “Only if your great-grandfather was the Hamilton County Sheriff in the 1930s.”

  “No.” Thank the stars. “My great-grandfather is the one getting arrested in that photo.” Now I remembered why the name Landers had sounded familiar. Sheriff Landers was the one who’d taken my predecessor to the pokey. Good thing my granddad hadn’t heard our conversation. He’d hit the roof if he learned Marlon was kin to the man who’d put his father in the slammer.

  “Ew?” Marlon referred back to my outburst as he eyed me intently. “Do I disgust you, Hattie?”

  Quite the opposite. “No, it’s just that . . .” I couldn’t think of any way to end the sentence without revealing the fact that I found him attractive.

  He bent his head down and whispered, “You’ve taken a shine to me. Haven’t you?”
r />   My cheeks flaming, I said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I don’t have to.” A cocky grin played about his lips. “You already did with that ‘ew.’ ”

  Two could play the cocky game. “Then I suppose it’s your turn to flatter me, isn’t it?”

  “All right.” He ran his gaze over my face and hair. “Your curls are adorable.”

  So are yours. “And?”

  “You’ve got gumption.”

  So he found a woman with gumption attractive rather than emasculating. That said something about him. “And?”

  “You’re pushing your luck, little filly. Now serve a man some moonshine.”

  I raised a jug of Granddaddy’s Ole-Timey Corn Liquor in one hand and a jar of my peach moonshine in the other. “Pick your poison.”

  He pointed to the jar of my moonshine. “Let me try that one first.”

  I poured him a sample of the peach. While he savored the sample, the bells rang again and in slipped a thirtyish man I didn’t recognize. He was tall with dark hair and sported both a five-o’clock shadow and a bright red shirt bearing the logo of Backwoods Bootleggers. His cap bore the same logo, telling me he was in uniform. He’d paired the shirt with loose-fitting, multipocketed cargo pants. Besides the hillbilly aesthetic, the ample on-person storage was the same reason I wore overalls to work. The man kept his head down and attempted to blend into the crowd, but with most of the guests having already come and gone, he didn’t succeed. He stopped at a shelf and picked up a jar of my moonshine to peruse the label.

  “Excuse me just a moment, Marlon.” Leaving Officer Heartthrob at the sample table, I headed over to the man. “Hello, there. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  The man’s eyes flashed in alarm. He’d been caught trespassing, and he was waiting to see how I’d react.